A stab in the dark 8



8

Deeds cringe at dark wood's end,
slither and die over leafy lips.
He hesitates,
although this particular crossing
is of no value.
Nevertheless, there are phantoms
in any conscious effort.

It is here he meets what is
without lazy cloaks of misrepresentation,
here where hazy tell tale customs
cast anestizised spells over things.

Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all split second perception
into one sole moment of here,
there is no other touch.

Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples,
dusty images of what might be true
are but purple words,
an arrangement of flowers perhaps.

The element of understanding
has to do with white keys and clouds,
the state of origin. Birthed mortals
need to breathe where wild is a breath.

Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like white clouds
over any objection.

"I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken, the impossible,
the mad glimpses of belonging,
the electric flashes
between my bedroom poles,
the taut cerulean wood
with the moon shifting."

The wind is the air he moves
as intentions move him
– highways and wasteland –
not even he can collect.

Slow is the purpose
that follows maps of old,
steeped in ways of imaginary wings,
intense, bold leaps
over the old lane of sense.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1122 times
Written on 2011-09-08 at 23:37

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